


More Than Just Mad Skill

by boccardo_syllogism



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Actual Tahiti, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Miscommunication, Pranks, post framework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/pseuds/boccardo_syllogism
Summary: Because our favorite agents aren'talwayskicking ass and taking names. A collection of one-shots that aren't long enough to be posted on their own.





	1. for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night at the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Romeo and Juliet_.
> 
> _For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,  
>  And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss._

There are actual paper files all over his desk. His tablet is displaying a map grid heavily dotted with confirmed and unconfirmed sightings, records of unusual activity, and CCTV camera locations. Even the giant holoscreen is up, projecting key selections from the intelligence and analysis reports he’s been combing through for the last two days.

Well - he glances at his watch and groans - technically three, now. Fuck, but he’s tired. It’s the job, though, and he isn’t going to send out his team with anything less than the maximum amount of information he can give them. If that means he has to keep working long after anyone sane would have gone to bed, so be it. Whatever it takes.

He can feel that single detail that’ll crack the whole thing open and give them the edge almost dancing out of his reach. It’s there somewhere, right in front of him, mocking him. The sharp fog of a headache is rapidly setting in; he rubs his temples in an effort to push it back and returns to his files.

“Phil?”

Melinda’s leaning against his office door, looking smaller than usual in a soft Pink Floyd t-shirt he knows for a fact she stole from him and pajama pants. It’s hard to breathe for a moment at the sight of her. Her eyes flick over him, cataloguing his no doubt rumpled appearance.

“It’s late,” she says quietly.

Phil can only nod. He knows.

Melinda watches him for a moment. Then she pads over on bare feet to stand between his knees, dark eyes tender as she gently pulls his glasses off and sets them on the desk behind her. Her thumb traces his cheekbone in a slow caress.

Suddenly it is too much to keep his head upright for even a second longer, and he finds himself tipping forward until his forehead is pressed against the comforting solidity of her stomach. Warm fingers curl gently through his hair. His eyes prickle a bit at the wave of relief and  _ home _ that washes over him. He leans more of his weight against her, listening to her heartbeat and breathing in the soft, familiar scent of Melinda ready for bed.

“I’m missing something,” he whispers finally. It’s not what he means, not really - mostly he just wants this moment to last forever, where no one needs him and he never has to do anything but keep his eyes shut and let Melinda hold him close. But he can’t do that, because he needs to finish planning this op, and he can’t do that because he’s  _ missing _ -

A hand trails down to the base of his neck. He sighs.

“Our bed is missing  _ you _ ,” she tells him.

He wonders if she can feel his smile through her shirt.

Melinda pulls back a little, tilting his chin up until he’s looking at her. “I know this is important,” she says, holding his gaze, “but you need to sleep. You’re no use to anyone if you’re too tired to think.”

“I’m sorry.”

She presses a lingering kiss to his forehead and Phil’s eyes drift shut with no conscious prompting from him. All around them everything is still - it feels like there is nothing in the world but the two of them, alone in his office late at night.

Eventually she pulls back. “Come to bed, Phil,” she murmurs, making to step away, but his hand shoots out to grab her wrist. He lets his fingers slide down over the sensitive inner skin where her pulse is beating strong and steady until her hand turns over under his and their palms are pressed together, fingers entwined.

Melinda smiles. It’s his favorite of her smiles, the one that’s small and reaches her eyes, the one that only comes out when he’s done something really dorky - or, more recently, sappy - and he’s not ashamed to admit he’s made a fool of himself many times over the years as an excuse to see that smile on her face when she looks at him. He kisses her knuckles just to watch it widen.

Neither of them say anything as she shuts down the holoscreen and he sorts the files into something vaguely approaching order; it’s quiet when he locks the office and they shuffle towards their bedroom with her arm around his waist and his over her shoulders. He does pause, though, after the door has shut behind them - the sign that he’s free to be just _Phil_ again. Melinda turns to look at him, questioning.

“I love you,” he tells her simply.

She rises on her toes just a bit, just enough to kiss him softly, and he’s so tired that the feeling of her lips against his is the last thing he really registers even as his clothes disappear and they crawl into bed. Tomorrow he’ll go back to tearing his remaining hair out over the op, but for now, he’s safe and warm and next to Melinda. He sleeps.


	2. how lonely, how pale it will be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil watches the two most important women in his life leave him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the American folk song _Red River Valley_.

It’s an accident, is the thing.

Daisy storms into the room where he and Melinda had been trying to come up with some idea of what to do next. Phil knows he deserves every word of her fury, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when someone who might as well be his child stares at him with such betrayal in her eyes. And yet, even as she rants and rages, there is an unspoken awareness between them that he would do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant she was here to hate him at all.

She eventually runs out of steam and turns away like she can’t even bear to be in the same room as him, slamming the door so hard it echoes in the tiny room. Melinda hadn’t approved of his actions either, but there’s clear sympathy in her eyes when she steps forward to rest her hand on his arm, just like he’d comforted her on the trawler.

And Phil flinches away.

It’s totally instinctive. He hasn’t had a moment to himself to check exactly how far it’s spread since that fight, and he knows the tear in his shirt collar is exposing him more and more to discovery as time passes. He’s made it this far under the confusion and adrenaline of returning to their time, and it really is just an involuntary attempt to keep Melinda away from this thing he doesn’t really understand. He honestly didn’t mean to.

The problem is, he’s never in his life recoiled from her touch before. And they both know it.

He can  _ see _ the wrong impression forming in her eyes, the way her entire face shuts down as her hand falls back to her side. For a very long moment, they are both completely still. Then Melinda makes some kind of garbled excuse and backs away, nearly running into the door before she flees the room.

Phil… doesn’t move.

Every minuscule iota of his being is screaming at him to chase after her, to explain, to tell her the truth. He wants so badly to catch her hand in his and ask her how she could ever believe he doesn’t love her with everything he is. More than anything, he wants to finally, _finally_ pull her into the kiss they’ve been putting off for what feels like centuries.

But this isn’t about what he wants. It’s about doing what he needs to do to get the job done, and the job always comes first. He’d be a giant asshole if he told Daisy that but couldn’t follow his own rule. As much as he hates it, this  _ is _ the best way.

The arm Melinda had reached for feels several degrees hotter than the rest of his body. The romantic in him would like to say it’s because she was so close, but Phil considers it a point of personal pride that he doesn’t lie to himself. He knows damn well that it’s spreading - and quickly. Faster than it was before. Honestly, he’s lucky it’s worst on his left side, since that hand is a prosthetic and won’t show anything amiss. Small mercies.

If he keeps his jacket on and the collar up, hopefully no one will notice anything’s wrong for a while yet. After all, he did manage to make it through their entire misadventure in the future without arousing suspicion. Yes, Fitz wasn’t there for most of it, and yes, Melinda had been kind of preoccupied with the severe injury to her leg, and yes, Jemma had almost immediately been seized and Daisy had followed her, and yes, Mack had been caught up in his grief and Yoyo in trying to help him heal. When he thinks about it that way, it isn’t really that impressive, but Phil will take what victories he can get at this point.

Just a little bit longer. That’s all he needs.

The first time, there hadn’t been time to think about it. He’d just stumbled forward and done the stupid thing because there was nothing else he _could_ do, and he’d paid the price. One moment he was facing a god, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking, the next he was slumped against a wall fighting to breathe.

This isn’t like that. He voluntarily agreed to dying like this. This time, he gets to really focus on the slow spread of something eating away at his veins. This time, he gets to live with the deliberate decision to hide it from the people he loves most in the world, because the last thing they need right now is to waste time fretting about something that can’t be changed. They’ll never forgive him for doing it this way, Phil knows. Jemma and Fitz will think of all the tests they could have run, the progress they could have made, the cure they’ll think they could have found. Mack will be torn between wishing he had left the Framework earlier to take the deal himself - he’d carried the Ghost Rider himself before, after all - and the memory of the daughter he’s still mourning. Yoyo he’s not entirely sure about, considering she’s been giving him strange looks ever since they returned to their time, but she doesn’t treat dishonesty lightly. Daisy, of course, is already furious at him anyway.

And Melinda...

Phil sighs. It doesn’t matter, really, what they think of him in the end. If he hadn’t agreed to this, the scale of AIDA’s destruction would have been global. In the grand scheme of things, one man who’s already died once isn’t important. What matters is that Phil’s family is safe. He’ll make sure of that if it’s the last thing he ever does.

At the rate he’s going, it will be.


	3. Applied Linguistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favourite _(adjective)_ : preferred to all others of the same kind.

At three in the morning at a party in his second year of college, someone drunkenly asks Phil Coulson, age 19, what his favorite word is. He has to think about it - not because he’s also drunk (though he is) but because he’s never been asked that before, and it’s an interesting question that deserves a real answer even if his friends have already started joking that it’s a tie between “Captain” and “America.” He laughs along, since he does kind of bring it on himself, but he’s thinking.

His eventual answer is “may.”

It’s full of possibilities, is the thing. Something may happen, or it may not, or maybe it’ll go in a direction no one saw coming at all. Either way, an event leads to another event - there’s always something to look forward to. If he were more of a pessimist, he might argue that it also means there’s always an option that never comes to be, but that strikes him as a defeatist way to live one’s life. Better to anticipate than brood.

The month of May comes into his appreciation too. April showers bring May flowers, as the old rhyme goes, and he likes the idea of spring and new life. Rebirth, really. Flowers bloom and leaves grow every year but never in exactly the same place. More possibilities.

Of course, he doesn’t tell his friends his thought process. For one thing, they’re all kind of astoundingly smashed and putting ideas into words is beyond him at this point. For another, Lisa Johnson from economics, who is an inch taller than him and the hottest woman he’s ever seen in real life, has just produced a bottle, urging everyone into a circle on the floor. Any lingering thoughts on the finer points of the English language are swept away in a hurry.

* * *

 

At three in the morning at a nondescript motel in California, Skye asks Phil Coulson, age 49, what his favourite word is. Neither of them can sleep - even as the others eventually disappeared into their rooms, they’d stayed at their table, staring blankly at the calm surface of the pool in a hopeless attempt to process their respective traumas from last few days. The random questions had started a little after midnight. He now knows that Skye has a thing for Angelina Jolie, hates celery, and has Opinions with a capital O about something called My Chemical Romance. Skye now knows that his favorite _Star Wars_ movie is _A New Hope_ , his stance on the pancakes/waffles debate (pancakes), and the short version of how he came to own Lola.

He only realizes he hasn’t answered for a bit too long when she pokes him with her toe. “C’mon, AC, don’t space out on me,” she says. “Favorite word, let’s g-”

“May?”

Because there she is, much to his surprise. He’d thought she’d turned in for the night hours ago, and she’s got that specialist trick of being able to shut down and sleep in virtually any conditions down cold. It must be failing her now.

“Coulson,” she responds flatly, pulling out a chair at their table. Their eyes catch - her exhaustion and guilt are plain as day, and he hopes she can see his own just as well. He bumps his foot against hers under the table just in case she can’t. He’s missed her so much.

“Thank God you’re here, May,” Skye says, echoing his thoughts. “Tell me embarrassing stories about AC. You two probably got into a _lot_ of wacky hijinks, right?”

It’s amazing, he thinks vaguely. If he didn’t know better, he’d actually say every single muscle in his body just tensed. “Maybe this isn’t the greatest-”

“Coulson once had to wear a skimpy flight attendant costume in public,” she says, like he hadn’t even spoken, and Skye starts giggling uncontrollably. It’s nice to see her looking happy, but seriously. What did he do to deserve these kinds of stories getting dragged out?

“It was at the Academy, there was a costume party, and I lost a bet,” he tries to explain.

“Yeah. To _me_.”

“And did I ever bet against you again? No. Besides, I’m not the one who accidentally dyed my feet purple.”

They trade stories back and forth, hamming up some of the more ridiculous parts for Skye’s benefit, and eventually she lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and wanders off to bed. May doesn’t move, but she also doesn’t look at him, so he tips his head back and tries to make out the constellations for a while.

When his neck starts to hurt, her eyes are closed. She’s not truly asleep, just dozing, but the fact that she’s out here at all sends a rush of relief through him anyway. They still have this. Even after all the horrific revelations of the last couple days, they still have this.

* * *

 

At three in the morning in their bed at home, unused to the time zone after a two-week op in Jakarta, nobody asks Phil Coulson, age 56, what his favorite word is. His mind is wandering, though, exploring moments he’d mostly forgotten the way it’s too easy to do when you’re meant to be snoring into a pillow. When his brain throws up that long-ago night in college and the vigil by the pool, he has to hastily smother a laugh.

“Phil, if you don’t shut up and let me sleep, I’m going to divorce you.”

He murmurs his apologies into Melinda’s bare shoulder, kissing the nape of her neck softly when she grumbles. Despite her outward annoyance, she doesn’t hesitate to let her weight lean back into his chest, warm and familiar as ever, and he can’t help but press a final tender kiss to her temple as they settle down to sleep at last.

Phil used to like his favourite word because of the possibilities. He still does, but now all the possibilities he needs are sleeping in his arms, and the word has a new layer of meaning he couldn’t possibly have imagined when he was nineteen.

It means _her_.


	4. Form D87-A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D87-A: Explanation of Mission Failure Unrelated to Extended Operation, General. Colloquially known as the "baby FUBAR" form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is easily the stupidest thing I've ever written, but I saw [this ask](http://katrinacornwells.tumblr.com/post/170396378121/this-is-heresy-but-never-gonna-give-you-up-is) and, well...... this happened.

Daisy’s on the couch when Coulson finally makes it home, doing actual work and totally not playing a pirated version of the old Microsoft space pinball game. She tenses, expecting some kind of reaction after earlier, but all he does is smile at her when he sets down his briefcase, so either he’s playing the long game and plans revenge when she least expects it, or he’s gonna tell May and then she’ll _really_ be in trouble.

Her stomach practically curdles when he heads straight for May after kicking off his shoes.

Then again, AC and May are the kind of disgustingly cute couple that automatically gravitate towards each other anyway, May’s home on medical leave with bruised ribs, and Coulson is the most earnest, devoted, sad-blue-puppy-eyes mother hen in the history of the world. So it’s probably fine.

May gets up from where she’d spent most of the afternoon doing paperwork or something else boring at the kitchen table with a wince, and Daisy can’t even see Coulson’s face anymore but she _knows_ it’s got that “Don’t Tell Me To Stop Freaking Out, You’re Hurt” look all over it. She and Yoyo had gotten really bored once and decided to name all of Coulson’s many expressions, from “I’m Not Mad My Coffee Is Cold, Just Disappointed” to “If You Don’t Shut Up I Will Shove A Stapler Up Your Ass And Use It To Do Paperwork.” They’ve been trying to orchestrate another sighting of the elusive “Bee Gees Zen Coulson” but Fitz has been uncooperative. Although maybe if they can persuade Jemma it’s medically beneficial to ensure a relaxing environment-

Ew. Coulson and May are kissing.

It’s not like they’re hardcore making out against the kitchen table or anything - which Daisy had accidentally walked in on once, _disgusting,_ they _eat_ there - but she still feels more than a little like she’s watching her parents demonstrate the finer points of mouth-on-mouth action. She’s kind of proud of them, actually. It took approximately 900 years for them to finally admit how crazy they were about each other, and that was _after_ she’d met them. But now they’re standing in their kitchen, in the house they own together, sharing a just-got-home kiss like they’ve been married for 30 years.

Her couch in the living room is just far away enough that Daisy can’t quite make out what Coulson says when they separate again. She can see May narrowing her eyes, though, which has her ducking behind the safety of her laptop again just in case. It’s probably useless. May’s death glares are powerful enough to burn through solid concrete, much less her poor computer.

Yet the screen doesn’t burst into flames. There isn’t even any menacing silence. In fact, there’s…… _singing?_

Daisy’s head shoots up.

Coulson’s pulling May into a dorky little dance around the kitchen, gawky and uncoordinated in the way only a white dad can truly achieve, laughing his way through the lyrics. Daisy stares in sick fascination as the director of S.H.I.E.L.D, still in the suit he wears only for really important meetings, almost backs into the side of the counter with one particularly ambitious slide. She’s hallucinating, right? This can’t actually be happening. And yet Coulson and May are making their way into the living room and the off-key singing is getting louder and clearer, so apparently it’s real.

The closer they get, the easier it is to see that despite how they’re bumbling around like a pair of newborn foals, Coulson’s hand is so careful on May’s side, deftly avoiding the bruising like it’s in plain sight instead of hidden under her shirt. It doesn’t even look like he’s actively concentrating on doing it. Daisy is going to choose to believe they’re just crazy in tune with each other rather than considering the other reason why Coulson might know the exact dimensions of May’s bruises. It’s a lot sweeter and less traumatizing that way.

May’s expression has been a pretty consistent mix of amusement and total confusion, but it quickly shifts to absolute rejection when Coulson tries to twirl her. _“Phil.”_

“What?”

She gives him The Look. Daisy thinks vaguely that it’s a good thing she and Yoyo never tried to name _her_ expressions, because a good 40% of them can be described perfectly as “The Look” without any further explanation being necessary. There are rumors that she once convinced an enemy agent to surrender his weapon just by subjecting him to The Look, although after hearing Coulson’s version of the story Daisy’s pretty sure it had more to do with the fact that May had been covered in blood and holding a giant assault rifle. The point is, grown men have been driven to helpless weeping by The Look.

Coulson, however, not only completely fails to quiver in fear but actually beams at her. “Come on, it’s a great song!” he wheedles. “Even Daisy likes it.”

At that, May’s focus immediately snaps to her. The shiver that runs down her spine is completely involuntary. “Uh. What?”

Coulson finally gives up on trying to twirl May and settles for sliding his arm around her waist. “You sent me the Youtube video in an email today, remember? Thanks, it was a great way to jazz up the afternoon.”

Wait. Is he serious?

“You sent him a _Rick Astley_ song?” May’s voice is even. Like, too even. The kind of May-being-calm that usually has Daisy two seconds from scrambling for cover.

Not that Coulson notices, of course. “Actually, it might have been an accident? I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be a link to something else.” He shrugs. “At least the email wasn’t about anything too important. No harm, no foul. Just get me the right link when you can, okay?”

Daisy nods faintly.

Coulson shoots her double finger guns, which normally she would mock the _hell_ out of him for, then turns back to May. “I’m going to change into sweats and then cook dinner. What do you think, fajitas tonight?” Presumably May says something back, but Daisy can’t really hear anything over the loud buzzing in her ears. There’s one more quick kiss before Coulson disappears into the hallway, tugging his tie loose and whistling the chorus of _Never Gonna Give You Up._

She stares after him in total disbelief.

“You’re grounded,” May says flatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. _LISTEN._ Phil Coulson is _exactly_ the type of person who not only has no idea what rickrolling is but enthusiastically likes the song in the first place. I cracked up when the idea occurred to me and I spent the entire time I was writing giggling like a lunatic. Daisy's point of view is so much fun to write.
> 
> Also, this is a PSA that you can still play the space pinball game onto your current computer! If you google it, the first result should take you a site where you can do so. Long live 3D Space Cadet!


	5. sing my heart out into my hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No mission ever goes entirely according to plan and any agent worth their salt knows it. The exact circumstances of how this one went off the rails, however, are a little more ...illuminating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [@philcoulsons over on tumblr](http://philcoulsons.tumblr.com/post/171585279333/imagine-phils-hand-glowing-the-first-time-he) for the idea! Title from Iron and Wine's _Right for Sky_.

She’s about to leave the debriefing and hit the showers like everyone else who’d been on the mission when she sees the confused look on Daisy’s face. They’ve come a long way from the days when the girl whose only name was Skye had trouble even loading a gun, but Melinda will always be her SO, so she sits back down and waits.

Daisy almost jumps when her eyes finally focus again and she notices Melinda still there. “Sorry, May, I was-”

“Just ask, Daisy.” Even if she wasn’t generally blunt, her shoulder hurts, she’s covered in grime and a little blood, and the headache from a lucky punch by one of the security goons is getting more difficult to ignore. She achieved all the necessary objectives and a few more besides, and now all she wants is to get clean and unwind.

“I guess I just don’t understand how you and Coulson were discovered.”

_Shit._

“I mean, it was a pitch-black warehouse, I cut the lights myself,” Daisy continues, apparently not noticing that Melinda’s entire body has gone tense. “Yeah, there were a ton of enemy agents, but you weren’t even on the open floor, right? Coulson said he found a gap in the stacks.”

“Yes.” He’d pulled her in right as a squad turned the corner and the lights had gone out moments later. The confusion and cursing as their pursuers fumbled for their flashlights had given her just enough overhead noise to nudge a container in front of them, effectively blocking them from view. It was hardly the first time they’d been trapped in a small space over the years. It wasn’t even the first time they’d been pressed so closely together she could feel his heart pounding against her back from the thrill and exertion of evading capture.

It was, however, the first time he’d forgotten to let go of her hand afterwards.

Daisy frowns. “Then how did they find you? I’ve seen you guys sit in total silence for _hours,_ and that was just when Hunter challenged Bobbi to a game of hide-and-seek.”

Melinda hesitates, trying to find some explanation that seems plausible enough to satisfy Daisy without actually giving away the truth. She’s not embarrassed, per se - it’s just that she’d rather keep this between her and Phil. Some things should be private. But then she looks at Daisy, who might as well call herself a Coulson considering how obviously Phil loves her like she’s his own daughter, and reconsiders. If there’s anyone else who should know, it’s her.

“You still have access to base security cameras, right?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Daisy says, baffled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Melinda smirks. “Pull them up and watch me.” At that, she gets up and leaves, but no matter how heavenly her shower sounds right now, she’s got a different destination in mind. A few minutes later, she’s knocking on a door and hoping she isn’t misreading things too badly.

To her relief, the door opens to reveal a slightly nervous-looking Phil. He’s just out of his own shower, if the damp hair and pajamas are anything to go by, but he beckons her inside with a pleased smile anyway. Melinda glances at the corner of the ceiling where she knows there’s a discreet camera, just like in her own room. _Now or never._

Their first kiss was cut short by loud shouting not far from their hiding spot when someone noticed the faint glow. Their second is much better (the lights are on this time, for one thing) and there’s no worry of discovery and capture, so she can take her time exploring his mouth and finding out exactly what noises he makes when her fingers card through his hair. Phil seems to be having similar thoughts - one hand snakes its way around her waist, the other coming to rest between her shoulder blades, drawing her closer until there’s almost no room left to breathe and _devouring_ her bottom lip. It’s only the knowledge that Daisy’s watching that forces Melinda to draw back instead of taking it even further.

Phil’s eyes flutter open, gratifyingly dazed. “Hi,” he whispers, and the sight of his lips, just a bit blurry from kissing her, pulling into a goofy smile almost ruins her resolve. “Did you come straight from the debriefing?”

“I did,” she answers. “We had a discussion to continue.”

He laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s at that point they both notice his prosthetic hand is glowing again.

Phil instantly lets go of her and steps away. “I’m so sorry about earlier,” he says, hiding the hand behind him and looking everywhere but at her. “I had no idea that was going to happen, please believe me - you know I would _never_ endanger an op like that. I don’t know what happened but I’ll get Fitz to deal with it as soon as possible.”

He’s so obviously mortified that she has to kiss him again. Just a quick peck on his reddened cheek, nothing serious, but it does seem to calm him down a little and he stops trying to duck his head. “I kind of like it,” she says, kissing his other cheek. “It’s nice to have visible proof that you like me.”

When she pulls back, Phil’s staring at her with the kind of helpless look in his eyes she’s quietly dreamed of for years. “Melinda,” he breathes, and the longing in it steals her breath away. “You know it’s not just ‘like.’”

She’s never been very good with words, and the sheer amount of emotion she’s feeling right now would make any kind of verbal response practically impossible for most people anyway. So she just tugs on his left arm until he finally stops trying to hide it behind his back and holds the prosthetic hand between her own. It’s still shining faintly. She’s never really seen the effect up close before, but the sight is beautiful - his hand, bigger than her own but missing the tell-tale scars and calluses from their job, sparking here and there like fireworks are going off just below the polymer skin.

She wonders what it will do when she tells him she loves him too.

Phil takes a deep breath. “I - um. Maybe this is too much, but…” He swallows. “I have a first aid kit. And a shower. You could… stay.”

“I’d like that,” Melinda says, once she’s sure she can speak over the lump in her throat.

His free hand comes up to cradle her face. This one is warm, and she can feel the scar that cuts across his palm from one particularly messy mission in Jaipur twenty years ago. A thumb brushes her cheekbone, so hesitant that she almost wants to cry, but she just leans into it until there can be no question of how much she wants him there. Phil hasn’t initiated a kiss himself before, but he does now, chaste and gentle.

They don’t exactly pull apart so much as stay there breathing each other’s air. She nudges his nose with her own, and the tiny huff of laughter has her grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. _This_ is what she’d wanted, all these years - just them, together, heads tipped together and so close their eyes won’t focus. It almost doesn’t seem real, but then her shoulder twinges again, and if she was dreaming there definitely wouldn’t be any need for paracetamol. Melinda doesn’t mind. Reality is so much better.

Phil obviously notices her tiny wince, squeezing her hand. “I’ll get everything you need,” he murmurs, stepping away.

She watches him putter around for a moment, content to luxuriate in the warmth flooding her chest, before checking her phone. As she expected, there’s a single text from Daisy, which consists only of an unintelligible keysmash and at least a dozen exclamation points. 

Yeah, Melinda feels the same way.


	6. if I wore your wings back home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even a phone call you've been waiting for doesn't excuse inconsiderate timing, _Phil._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anonymous prompt over on Tumblr. (Feel free to send me those, by the way!) Title from Iron and Wine's _Song in Stone._

“You know it’s past ten, right?”

“That’s it?” The disbelief is clear in Phil’s voice, even tinny as it is from the speaker. “How about ‘Hi, Phil, nice to hear from you after three weeks of total silence’? Or ‘How was the mission?’ Maybe even ‘I miss you so much, take me now, you hunk of man-’”

“You’re not much of a hunk,” Melinda tells him.

_“Hey!”_

She’s alone, so there’s no reason to hide her smile at the flood of outraged whining that erupts from her phone. It’s so good to hear his voice again; three weeks felt like three years without the dorky jokes and rambling tangents she’s gotten used to. They used to go months on end without contact, back when they were younger and just another cog in the S.H.I.E.L.D. machine, and it had been effortless to pick up where they left off like no time had passed at all. That seems unimaginable now.

“-are you even listening to me?” Phil demands.

“No.”

That gets a laugh. Not quite the same as in person, but still a bright sound of genuine amusement that sets her at ease. “Wow, you really didn’t miss me at all, huh?”

“Davis makes an excellent spotter in the gym,” Melinda says as blandly as she can.

“You _replaced_ me? May, that hurts. I’m hurt.”

Melinda stiffens. “Are you?” They both know she doesn’t mean his feelings.

Phil sighs. It’s not a bad sound, though, just a tired one. “Mission’s over,” he says, the joking tone of their earlier banter fading into something quieter, more serious. “No one’s badly hurt, but Yates got a bit banged up and Estevez is going to have a hell of a shiner tomorrow. Pretty clean, as far as these things go.”

“Nine hour flight time?” If she’s listening intently for any sign that his breathing is labored or uneven… well, no one can prove it, least of all Phil, who makes a small noise in confirmation. “I’m not going to entertain you for the whole thing.”

“I’m sure I can manage,” Phil says, right as someone knocks on the door. Melinda closes her eyes in frustration - whoever it is better have a damn good reason for bothering her this late. If it was actually important, they’d have sent a S.H.I.E.L.D. alert, and there is _nothing_ anyone could possibly want to discuss that merits an unannounced visit at almost eleven on a Sunday night.

“Hold on a second,” she tells him, setting the phone down. She opens the door ready to rain down hell on whoever it is only to see a very familiar figure, bag slung over one shoulder and phone still up to his ear.

“Surprise,” Phil says, grinning.

Melinda just stares for a moment, unable to believe her eyes. Then they collide with such force that Phil stumbles back a step, but she hardly even notices, too caught up in the fact that he is finally, _finally_ here, where she can feel his startled laugh and steady heartbeat. She smiles into his neck at the unmistakable feeling of a kiss pressed into her hair.

“I knew you missed me,” Phil teases. He doesn’t even wince when she stomps on his foot, but he does press a longer kiss to her temple. “I missed you too.”


	7. Contronym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kän-trə-ˌnim [noun]: a word having two meanings that contradict one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tumblr anon requested a moment alone at the diner before Enoch shows up. Thanks, anon - it took me forever to find an idea that seemed right, and I hope you like what I did with it!
> 
> For those of you who like a soundtrack to your fic, this one is brought to you by [Max Richter's _On The Nature of Daylight._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVN1B-tUpgs)

“Hey.”

Melinda turns. The rest of the team are already heading into the diner, subdued but together, and the comforting scent of vaguely greasy all-night breakfast coming from the door brings back memories of her and Phil twenty years ago, coming off the adrenaline rush of completed missions and feeling immortal.

They’d been so young, back then. If she were to close her eyes, it would be so easy to picture Phil as he was in those days, bright-eyed and eager and still not _quite_ used to the idea of his suit being a second skin. He’d be drinking diner coffee with a pointed smirk, blatantly reveling in the kind of caffeine that stale teabags just couldn’t match.

She misses him.

There is another lifetime now, looming beneath her skin, in which he does not exist - where she is quiet and effective and loyal to HYDRA, not knowing how to be anything else. _The man in front of you now is a stranger,_ it whispers seductively, _the man you’re remembering an outright myth._

It’s harder than it should be to shake. The worn lines of his face are as familiar and well-loved as her own name, but she doesn’t know how to read his expression. This feeling of being caught off-guard without enough information is one she associates with her other life and the sudden intrusion of a naive but well-meaning history teacher whose glasses magnified his eyes, just a little. Phil is supposed to be an open book. Then again, he’s seemed off since they woke up, and he’s probably trying to deal with the echoes of a changed life that had been even more radically different than her own. Maybe she doesn’t recognize the look in his eyes because she genuinely doesn’t know it.

God, her head hurts.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, eyes darting behind her. A tell, May thinks; he’s hiding something. But Melinda knows he’s only checking to make sure none of their team will overhear. The difference is instinctive, this time, and it settles her. “You were in the Framework longer than any of us.”

“I was,” she agrees. It’s all she can think of to say. She’s not exactly physically injured, but she is exhausted in a way that cuts to the bone, and every single one of her muscles is somehow both aching and numb. Part of her wants to take a shower, but she knows water and soap will not wash away unwanted memories today any more than they did after Bahrain.

She is not okay, she decides, but she can keep going. For now.

“What about you? Being the Ghost Rider?”

He takes a shuddering breath. It’s all the answer she needs, even before she catches sight of his haunted eyes. She knows what Phil looks like when he’s barely hanging onto sanity by his fingernails, and as awful as it is, she feels nothing but relief. This is not Coulson. She didn’t know Coulson. But she remembers this.

“I missed you so much,” she blurts.

Phil’s face goes through about 40 expressions in the space of two seconds. Normally she’d laugh, but she’s kind of shocked at herself for actually saying the words out loud. But the expression that wins out is a slow, heartfelt smile, the kind that always makes her heart skip a beat, and the last vestiges of doubt slip away. She hadn’t been in love with Coulson. This feeling is nothing new when it comes to Phil.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Somehow she knows he understands exactly what she meant.

Phil holds the door for her when they walk into the diner to reunite with the rest of the team at the counter. She and Daisy exchange an amused look when he charms the waitress with his Boy Scout manners. It’s so mind-numbingly normal that she almost laughs. And maybe an older Phil doesn’t smirk when he drinks his coffee, but that’s okay. Melinda likes this one better.


	8. The Fortune Cookie Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melinda gets a postcard. [Spoilers for 5x22.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the updated rating, wink wink. Nothing explicit actually happens, but it does get... suggestive. To be honest, though, this is ridiculous and goofy and completely ignores all inconvenient plot details In The Name Of Fluff. It just happens with less clothes on than usual.

They don’t get mail in Tahiti. After all, their team is busy intercepting Fitz before he hits Jupiter, and there aren’t a lot of other people who know about their vacation except her parents - and as much as she loves them, she and Phil had gone to some effort to make sure there was no danger of Lian May dropping in unannounced. It’s relaxing, in a way. No pressure to keep up with the outside world, no bills to pay, no junk mail to throw out. They’re free to focus entirely on each other. So it’s a bit of a surprise when she returns to their cabin after a run to find a postcard taped to the door.

It’s hideous.

Flamingos in an eye-watering shade of hot pink frolic on every available inch of the pictured beach. The sand is bright orange and peppered with seashells that look straight out of clip art. The caption is somehow even more garish than the rest of the postcard, and Melinda has to blink a few times before she can read it.

She pulls it off the door and walks inside to find Phil lounging in their bed with a book, covered only by a sheet and looking very pleased with himself.

“Really, Phil?” She holds it up. _“Wish You Were Here?”_

“It’s true,” he says, stretching languidly. “I felt very abandoned.” 

Melinda forces herself to keep her eyes on his face instead of watching the flex of muscle under his tanned skin. “I was gone for less than an hour.”

“I know, it was awful.”

His mischievous grin is so goofy that she can barely keep a straight face. “It’s like living with a needy puppy,” she grumbles, sitting down on the edge of the bed to take her running shoes off.

“But you love me,” Phil croons, winding his arms around her middle and kissing her neck.

The last thing Melinda wants is to encourage his ridiculousness, but he’s recently had occasion to become _very_ familiar with all the ways she likes to be touched, and she can’t help but lean into it a little. “I regret telling you that,” she mock-sighs, and Phil laughs against her skin.

“You can’t take it back,” he says. “You said it out loud and everything.”

“Can’t I?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” His hands have burrowed underneath her shirt, warm hands pulling her back to lean against his chest. Melinda suppresses a noise as his thumbs brush maddeningly against the underside of her breasts. “I’d feel pretty stupid if I said I loved you and you changed your mind.”

“Maybe you should say it a few more times to convince me.”

It’s meant to tease, not challenge, but Phil clearly takes it as one: he draws her chin towards him until their lips are scarcely more than a breath apart. “I love you,” he whispers against her mouth, more rumble than actual words.

Melinda snorts. He’s not getting away with that. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

Phil bites her lip in retaliation. “Here I am, trying to be romantic,” he grouses, tone completely at odds with how blatantly his hand is dipping below her waistband. She shivers slightly as he activates the vibration setting. “This is the part where you swoon at how suave I am and let me ravish you in the moonlight. All the romance novels say so.”

“It’s nine in the morning and you’re groping me wearing nothing but a sheet.”

“The height of sex appeal,” he protests. She’s laughing when he kisses her.

For all that his fingers are still buzzing gently against her stomach, the kiss is leisurely and warm. Phil makes sure to pay separate and equal attention to both her top and bottom lips, and Melinda leans into it, content to let him coax her into a state of relaxed arousal. Their hands pull her shirt up and off - she’s still sweaty from the run, but Phil doesn’t mind if the way his hand slides greedily up her side is any indication. It’s the work of a moment to settle him between her legs as her back falls to the mattress.

She hums softly in pleasure when he begins mouthing his way down her stomach. “So what you meant was _Wish You Were Here_ … in bed.”

Phil smirks against her skin. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Melinda kicks him in the leg.

He props his chin up on her stomach, smiling. “I put it on the door two days ago. Today was just the first time you went outside and saw it.”

“And being in bed was just a bonus?” she teases. They both know exactly where they’d spent all that time inside, and - her inner thighs twinge at the thought - what they’d been doing.

“I love you,” Phil says. “I always wish you were with me wherever I am, bed or no bed.”

The simple sincerity of it brings a lump to her throat. His hair is a mess, his stubble is now well on its way to becoming a beard, and the room positively reeks of sex, but the way he’s looking at her makes it impossible to think about anything but how much she wants the same thing. Forever, or as close to that as she can get.

“I love you too,” she says quietly, tracing his bristly cheek.

Phil shifts to nip gently at the pad of her thumb. His vibrating fingers make unexpected contact with her thigh - she can’t hold back the twitch of her hips, and the mood is suddenly incendiary.

“Phil.”

“Mm?”

She pushes him down until she can feel his breath on her clit. “I wish you were _here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fortune cookie game is, of course, adding "in bed" to the end of the message in a fortune cookie.

**Author's Note:**

> All these and more are also on [my tumblr.](http://preux-chevalier.tumblr.com/tagged/preux-fic) Come say hi - I'm always happy to get prompts!


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